


Blue, White, Red

by ForLoveOfLiberTea



Series: to all the creators whose works I loved [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, One Night Stands, Songfic, magical strike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-03-08 11:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13457094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForLoveOfLiberTea/pseuds/ForLoveOfLiberTea
Summary: ”What are the colors of the love you hold for me?”





	1. Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gallifreyanlibertea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyanlibertea/gifts).



> [ originally published on tumblr, dedicated to Mana-senpai for being an awesome senpai :D ]

He's heard of the rumours even before he first stepped foot into the carefully polished, monochrome halls of the Williams-Jones corporation's main headquarters.

A devil in disguise, a wolf in sheepskin, a terror and a daydream in one horrifically beautiful figure—Arthur Kirkland has heard of it all. He's no hormone-driven idiot, no matter how his fellow Omega colleagues alternately swoon and shake their heads at the slightest mention of him. 

He will not be swayed.

_He will not be one of the many casualties._

Therefore, the company president's son is to be avoided at all costs in order to prevent such an atrocity.

Arthur huffs as he catches a whiff of a sickeningly sweet scent once again. He wrinkles his nose, sparing a glance at the female Omega he _unfortunately_ shares a cubicle with.

Hideously flushed cheeks, a scent which smothers any and all Alphas (even a few Betas) in the near vicinity, bright and excited brown eyes—yes, it's clear that this poor employee is quite besotted with an unreachable goal. She leans back in her seat, pigtails bouncing in anticipation, attempting to catch even a glimpse of him when he passes by their corridor.

Arthur doesn't have to glance around to know that the rest of his colleagues are doing the same thing.

This happens twice a week, a fact he had taken notice of ever since the British Omega had began work in this same establishment nearly a year ago. _He_ will walk—or, more appropriately, _strut_ down the halls, peeking into randomly chosen rooms filled with supposedly working employees and often leaving with a devilish smirk and a wink. If those employees are lucky enough, the company president's son will give them a wave and a cheery greeting—sometimes it is, _"How ya' doin', my lovelies?",_ and on one particular occasion, _"The hero is here to relieve your boredom!"_

In that particular event, _he_ had, supposedly, walked through the rows of cubicles and terrorised each employee—either by pulling the plugs of their computers from their sockets or dumping an employee's preferred beverage all over their hair with a booming laugh. (A certain troublemaking Frenchman had all but rampaged his way out of that room that day with wine colouring his once-pristine suit and dripping from his hair, grumbling in French about injustices—not that _Arthur_ knew that was what he said. He'd only heard all about it from the bubbly Beta intern, Feliciano Vargas, the day after.)

Despite the recollection having given him an opportunity to privately smirk triumphantly at the mortification of his sworn enemy even now, six months after the event, Arthur remains adamant on his stand: he will not be swayed by the antics of the company president's son.

Not even after—

"Howdy, my lovelies!"

Arthur instinctively reacts—his stomach immediately fills with dread, numbing his senses as he forces himself to glance up, shoulders hunched and fingers paused in their journey across his keyboard, towards the doorway. _He_ stands there, leaning against the doorframe in his trademark black jacket, violet shirt and black slacks, paired with polished leather shoes. There's a new purple streak in his hair, but that same mischievous grin is still the same, as well as those blue, blue eyes which peer at the Briton from behind silver frames.

His arms are occupied, the Omega notices belatedly. Occupied with a bouquet of—

His heart seems to shrivel up and his stomach ties into anxious knots.

Roses. _Blue_ roses. Irises in every shade of violet and blue. And forget-me-nots. Dear God, _why?_

_(He's barely able to breathe, turning his head away as a voice whispers against his ear. "You've been so obedient so far, sweetheart," a hand, brushing against the curve of his waist beneath the olive green shirt he's wearing, fingertips feather-light and lingering. "So beautiful, and you're all_ mine. _That deserves a reward, don't ya' think so?")_

He swallows thickly, forcing himself to take deep, steadying breaths. Pure, unadulterated anger forces past the wave of dread and anxiety curling in the pit of his stomach.

_("I'm not yours to toy with, Jones," he hisses as acerbically as he can muster—only to be rendered ineffective as a soft, smooth laugh caresses his cheek, and those devious hands divest him of his shirt, tossing it somewhere in the darkness of the man's lavish penthouse._

_Arthur gasps uncontrollably as he's soon pinned against the wall, its surface cool against his bare skin and contrasted by the overwhelming warmth of the Alpha who cages him in, a leg pressed between the Briton's own, located dangerously close to his straining arousal. "I don't exist to provide you with carnal pleasure."—a grunt, and he can't help but roll his hips forward in response to the other man's persistent grind against him. He fights back a weak moan, forcing himself to scowl—"There are other Omegas who'll be more than willing to spread their legs for you.")_

He narrows his eyes into a glare, all the while desperately hoping that he hadn't forgotten to apply the scent inhibitor that morning. (He doesn't need to risk any more than this idiot is doing, recklessly charging into the room where Arthur works when he expressly told him not to.)

_(A smirk plays across the taller man's lips, "But I only want you, Arthur," he murmurs against the top of the smaller man's head. "No one else compares to you." And then he's leaning in, a hand running up and down the nape of his neck—Arthur can't control the shudder which ripples through his body as the Alpha captures his mouth in a kiss which rattles his once unshakeable resolve. He senses it when his slacks are soon unbuttoned and unzipped, pulled down to rest in a tangle around his ankles._

_A nip at his lower lip and he instinctively opens his mouth in a breathless whimper. He feels the way the taller man smirks as he takes the opportunity, pressing in close as he sweeps in to plunder the Omega's pliant mouth—every nook and tiny crevice, he leaves none untouched as he draws the Briton close, fingers tangled in his sandy blond hair.)_

"What brings you here, sir?" A pretty female Omega asks, batting her eyelashes at the obnoxiously confident Alpha. The company president's son ignores her heated gaze, as well as the stares of the rest of the employees.

Arthur knows that he's here for one reason, and one reason alone, and with dread freezing his senses, he remains stock-still in his seat, unable to tear his eyes away from the form of his tormentor as he advances.

A devil in disguise, a wolf in sheepskin—a terror and a daydream in one horrifically beautiful figure. Such is the anomaly known by the name of Alfred F. Jones, son and heir of the CEO of the Williams-Jones corporation.

He walks closer, closer, every step loud in the suddenly silent office. He leans in, resting his hands on one end of the desk, and those sinfully perfect blue eyes glint in that same way that sends a delightful shiver down Arthur's spine.

_("Do you want me?" He holds him close, trapped in his arms as Arthur lies upon the sullied sheets. Green eyes meet with blue, unobstructed by the glasses the younger man had set aside earlier on in the night before they fell deep into the throes of lust. Alfred leans over him, a hand carefully cradling his cheek as he gazes thoughtfully at the Briton._

_His lips are swollen and red, his cheeks still flushed and bruises litter his once porcelain skin. And a whisper slips from between his lips as the Alpha leans forward to swallow his response in another kiss._

_"Yes.")_

He doesn't move as Alfred presses deep into his personal space, and it's not long before the Alpha's lips brush against the hollow of his throat when he murmurs, husky and dark with desire.

_"I'll see you later, darlin'."_


	2. White

He opens his eyes to see a ceiling painted white. He blinks, slowly shifting in order to lay on his side in a futile attempt to block out the bright light which streams through the open windows.

His attempt encounters resistance, however, and Arthur barely manages to stifle a gasp of surprise. His gaze falls upon the amused blue eyes of one Alfred F. Jones, and the Alpha's lips pull up into a wicked smirk.

"Morning, beautiful," he drawls, and the Omega can't suppress the shiver which makes its way down his body as the taller man drapes an arm over his waist. Alfred leans up, resting his weight on his free arm as he looks over the silent man. His fingers linger upon the base of his spine, tracing nonsensical patterns on the bare skin. "I hope you slept well."

Arthur barely has any time to respond before the company president's son leans in, and those devious lips capture his own in another one of his intoxicating kisses. He nips at his bottom lip, waiting for the opportunity to sweep in and claim every crevice in the Omega's sweet mouth. It gathers the wanted response: the Briton's lips part in a breathless whimper, and Alfred delves into his opened prize. His fingers trace along the man's naked form, caressing the curve of his waist, his gentle touch lingering as it ghosts downward.

The flare of his hips, the silken smoothness of the inside of his thighs—the Alpha grins privately to himself as he maps out every centimeter of his beautiful Omega. _His._ His and his alone, and no one could take him away.

A stifled cry rushes forth from the Briton's throat as Alfred pulls away with a gentle kiss to his cheek. Arthur looks at him, an unparalleled beauty to those green eyes as they blaze with unrepressed annoyance. And the American smiles to himself, catching a whiff of the arousal coming from none other than the Omega lying before him.

He leans forward, allowing his hand to travel down, down towards the evidence of the smaller man's undeniable wants. A gasp and a muffled curse confirm his suspicions, and Alfred smirks. "Impatient, aren't we?" He breathes into the Omega's ear, earning the smallest of shivers.

"Shut your trap," he's pulled his lips down into a scowl, the Alpha notices, and amusement sweetens his scent even as it becomes thicker, richer, with the undertone of his desire. "You and I both _know_ that—"

Whatever acidic retort Arthur wanted to hurl upon him, it's ultimately lost as Alfred starts upon his downward sojourn, leaving soft, lingering kisses upon the once porcelain skin, now marred by the marks he'd left the night before. Arthur grits his teeth, unable to stop himself from curling his fingers into the still stained sheets as the Alpha's mouth closes around the tip of his urgent problem down there.

And _oh,_ does he cry out—loudly, _brazenly_ —when lips, teeth and tongue begin to unravel his tightly wound self-control.

"Jones—" he pants softly, breathlessly, and those hands finally give up their futile grasp upon the sheets in favor of curling into the American's blond hair. "S-stop teasing m— _ah—"_

He hums, and the vibrations send countless jolts of pleasure rippling through the Briton as he releases a loud moan. _“Alfred—"_

Thick and sickly sweet, the scent of roses assault his senses, and the Alpha pulls away from his current project, glancing up through hooded eyes at his lover. The Briton manages an irate huff of his name, irked at the sudden pause in his pleasure as he raises his head to glare at the company president's son.

"I should've known," Arthur all but snarls, "that you'd be such an absolute git about this." He's scowling, splotches of an angry red painting his cheeks, and Alfred can't help himself as he grins, pushing himself up so that his weight rests on his forearms.

"Come _on,_ sweetheart," he says with a matching teasing smirk as he allows a hand to trail almost unnoticeable patterns upon the Omega's straining erection—which makes the recipient utterly mad, in both senses of the word, "haven't I _satisfied_ you enough last night?" His blue eyes glimmer with intent, and he sees the color drain from the salaryman's face.

Oh, this is _fun._ He can't even begin to comprehend how utterly amusing he finds the fluctuating emotions made apparent through the constantly changing undertones to the Omega's scent. The Briton possesses one of the toughest masks to crack, after all—it _is_ interesting to see that even beneath it all, such a lovely, obstinate Omega is not any less susceptible to carnal pleasures.

His chest heaves with every shuddering breath he takes as the Alpha moves to lean over him, perfectly straight white teeth bared in a mischievous grin which all but proclaims of his lustful desires. "It's _my_ turn to play, darlin'," he coos, and the Briton shivers. Alfred takes note of his reaction as he leans forward, allowing his lips to brush against the edge of the smaller man's jaw. "I've yet to punish you for being late after I called you up yesterday."

His words seem to fan the almost forgotten embers of the Omega's ire into a raging flame.

"You _swore,"_ Arthur hisses irately. The American shifts in order to meet those poisonously green eyes as they stare at him with a mixture of barely repressed anger. "You swore that you wouldn't let _anyone_ in the company know of this dalliance. And yet look what you've done—congratulations, you brat, _everyone_ in my department, no, the _entire_ bloody company knows that _I'm_ the heir's whore."

Such bitterness lacing the smaller man's voice takes him aback, and Alfred pauses, carefully reaching up in order to cup his cheek. A sour undertone to his scent warns of the Omega's apparent ire and sadness, further attested to as Arthur turns his head away from the other man.

"I'm not your toy, Jones," his voice has shifted from its aggressive bite into a quiet whisper, yet an almost imperceptible tremor is there—Alfred immediately responds, shifting so that he lies beside the distressed salaryman, arms wrapped in a gesture of comfort around his slender frame. "I told you that when you first coerced me into your bed during your fit of selfishness in order to satisfy your libido. I told you that I've no intentions of repeating the mistake that was that night—and yet," he laughs, his voice acrid in its sarcasm, "and yet now I _still_ find myself in your bed, in your arms, _wanting_ you despite the fact that I know very well that I shouldn't—hell, I shouldn't even be saying this, but I am, and I—I just—"

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "What _am_ I to you, Alfred? If all I am is a quick shag, a hussy you want to play around with—I apologise, but—my pride cannot allow that any longer. I am worth more than being an Alpha's mere plaything."

The silence falls between them, tangible to a point that it gradually becomes oppressive, and Arthur, unable to take it any longer, moves in order to release himself from the Alpha's embrace. Alfred allows him to, watching him with an unreadable gaze as he sits up, the blankets falling away to display the tableau of marks across his once unblemished skin. He knows that he should say something, anything, and yet the American refuses to do so; in its stead, he sits upright, resting a hand upon the Omega's shoulder. He leans forward, brushing his lips against the back of the smaller man's neck.

It's fleeting, yet gentle all the same, and Alfred murmurs a breathless litany of his Omega's name against his skin. His hand falls to rest atop the salaryman's own, and, wordlessly, he intertwines their fingers in a loose hold.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, and he closes his eyes, whispering these words and wishing that they might be enough to let this man look at him with those green eyes again. He knows that it's a long shot, he knows that it seems insincere. He knows that he is undeserving of the hand he holds in his own atop these white sheets of his bed, he knows that he doesn't deserve to be forgiven for how he's played with this man's emotions.

And yet he tries. He tries, and hopes that it will be enough.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice a hollow remnant of his obnoxiously deceptive confidence.

_"My dearest."_


	3. Red

There have always been two absolute Rules—and yes, it has always been the employees' consensus with which to refer to them with a capitalised 'R' for emphasis—within the halls of the Williams-Jones corporation. These Rules have always been passed from a pair of eagerly gossiping lips to another, until the time came when they were thus rooted deep into the minds of every employee.

They are oft summarised with two simple words, and held fast within their memory by each member of the renowned company—lest they break one, and thus be removed from their place within the esteemed organisation.

The first Rule is known by the word _'Fealty'._ It simply speaks of the mandatory obedience of each employee to their lone leader, and none other. It speaks of the true faith they must uphold with their every duty to the company, for the success of the corporation as a whole.

To break this Rule is synonymous to committing treachery against their beloved leader, as well as a betrayal against every member of the company. Therefore, those who have broken this Rule are immediately fired after their leader has concluded his thorough investigation and declared the perpetrator guilty of his or her crime.

It is because of the first Rule that the Williams-Jones corporation has never suffered through any scandal brought about by its employees, which adds to their almost legendary fame throughout the business world.

The second, and heretofore the most prioritised of the two absolute Rules has always been known by this word— _'Aegis'._ Unlike the first Rule, which demands loyalty to the company's leader and him alone, the second Rule does not proclaim the same idea. No, _‘Aegis'_ had been created and implemented when the most recent leader of the corporation rose to power. The rule in itself merely calls forth a duty from every employee, whether they be of high rank or not, and that is to protect the Omega mate of their CEO.

Simple as it seems, _'Aegis'_ has continued to baffle many regarding its implementation. Many have attempted to discuss as to _why_ the great CEO of the acclaimed corporation even deigned to create such a policy, even going to the extent as to make it not only one of the two Rules of the organisation, but as _the_ Rule that is prioritised above all.

It is in this way that many an experienced journalist has sought to pry the reasons behind the implementation of the infamous second Rule. Most have inferred that the answer lies within the hands of the CEO's elusive Omega mate, whom the public has never known the name of. And yet, despite it having been years since its creation, none have succeeded in finding out the truth behind the popularly called 'Mystery' of the famed corporation. For its notorious fame in the depths of the internet, the investigation behind the truth of the ‘Mystery of the Second Rule' has been likened to a modern-day search for the Holy Grail, as popularised by many internet conspiracy theorists and the like.

Toris Laurinaitis has heard of this 'Mystery', and with it the knowledge of the Williams-Jones corporation's absolute Rules. And as he stares down the wide, highly polished halls of the esteemed edifice which is the organisation's headquarters, he feels uneasy, almost apprehensive. He's but a mere intern, he thinks, and yet he swallows thickly all the same as he looks upon his mentor, a highly respected journalist despite his unorthodox methods.

With a bright grin, the Polish man takes hold of Toris' right upper arm, digging his nails into the Lithuanian Beta's suit as he drags him along behind him. Toris fails to suppress a sigh as Feliks Lukasiewicz chatters brightly to the equally peppy receptionist, whose nametag proclaims him to be named _'Feliciano'._

He looks around, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as he notices several curious glances shot their way, and he self-consciously glances back to his mentor, who has now let go of his arm in preference to gesticulating quite widely and energetically.

"So, like, I know we're here a little _too_ early and all, but I don't suppose you could, like, talk to your boss if we could move up the interview a _teensy_ bit sooner?" Feliks smiles brightly, toying with a perfectly silky lock of his blond hair. He leans forward, tap-tap-tapping brilliantly manicured nails on the receptionist's polished desk.

"I'll see what I can do, _bella,"_ Feliciano beams, apparently mistaking the Beta for a woman due to his quirk of dressing in rather feminine attire, which Toris has gotten used to over the past year. "It might take a while because of some private matters that the CEO has had to resolve, so take a seat in the waiting area for now, _per favore."_

Feliks nods, seemingly pleased with the grace with which their obscenely early arrival had been received. As is his custom, he latches onto the Lithuanian man's arm, pulling him along after him towards the monochrome leather seats in the waiting area.

Toris looks around once more before he turns towards his mentor, watching as he smoothes out the silk skirt of the emerald green dress he's wearing before he sits down, legs crossed primly in a startling contrast to the excited glint in the Polish man's eyes.

"You've, like, heard of this corporation's CEO, haven't you, Tor?" Feliks flutters his fingers in the way the Beta has noticed as the other man's way of expressing his delight at the possibility of getting a particularly good scoop. _Know_ him? That is perhaps the understatement of the age—no person, in the field of business, journalism, or any other didn't know of the notorious Williams-Jones corporation's current CEO. That's why, at the brunet's hesitant nod, the blond's lips pull up into a rather wicked smirk.

Toris glances around warily—again, he can't exactly help himself—before turning to look at the Polish man yet again. "That would be Alfred F. Jones, wouldn't it?"

A grin is all he receives, before the other Beta prompts, "And, like, what else do you know of the totally mysterious Mr. Jones?"

Toris wonders if this is a test of his knowledge of the current news and the like, but then again, if there's one thing he knows well about his mentor, it's that the man absolutely _loves_ gossip about prominent persons in the society. With that, having reminded himself of Feliks' particular quirks, the Lithuanian looks towards his companion as he scratches at the back of his neck in a nervous habit of his which has never died down. "Alfred F. Jones rose to power as the CEO of the Williams-Jones corporation two years ago when his father, Benjamin Jones, retired. He was only twenty-three when he took the position. He's also been mated to a publicly unknown Omega about three years now."

Feliks grins cheekily, twirling a lock of his blond hair around a finger. "Soooo," he all but croons, dragging out the single-syllable word, "can you, like, tell me what's the name by which the totally lucky Omega who landed the CEO of the most powerful business corporation in the city is, like, referred to?"

Before Toris can even reply—and he certainly meant to, as he had been working up the nerve to open his mouth to do so—a voice cuts into their conversation: "I presume you're speaking about the dear 'Queen', _non?"_

The two Betas both look up, the Lithuanian somewhat confused as to the reason why an unknown Alpha had interjected in a private discussion, whilst his mentor reacts in quite the opposite manner. Feliks offers a hopeful smile, clapping his hands twice, "Yes, we were totally talking about the 'Queen'," he says, before his smile turns into rather mischievous, "but, I don't think you, like, interrupted us just for that. I suppose you're here to tell us something?"

The stranger smiles a sly smile which sends a chill down Toris' back, made even more apparent as the Alpha strokes through his long, silken blond hair before he dips down into a shallow yet still rather grandiose bow. "Of course," he says, offering a wink as he plays with a thornless, scarlet rose between his fingertips.

_"Monsieur_ Jones will see you now."

**[ § ]**

He knows that he _shouldn't_ be angry, that he should be rather used to this after _three_ bloody years of marriage, and even handling four years of a turbulent courtship before that, but _honestly,_ he can do with a single day of his husband not being a right possessive prick.

And so Arthur Kirkland-Jones crosses his arms across his chest, staring down his childish wanker of a husband in defiance. "Alfred," he says as frigidly as he can muster as the Alpha strides forward with the arrogant walk of man who knows that he can and he will get what he wants. But _no,_ the British Omega isn't going to give up, give in, and let him—not this time.

He'd been lenient three years ago when the American had proposed to enact the Second Rule right after they'd gotten back from their honeymoon and he'd been in a fairly pleasant mood, never mind that the reasoning behind the Rule in itself was rather petty. (Arthur will never admit it, but he remembers every sentence which had been breathed onto his skin that night between the sheets, the dark, possessive look in Alfred's eyes when he'd whispered against his lips— _"I don't want anyone to harm what's mine.")_

So he cannot, and he will _not_ allow his own husband to shield him from the media, from the people, this time around. His own biological makeup doesn't hinder his strength to defend himself, damn it—when will Alfred realise that? Being kept from others after 'Aegis' had been enacted had been torture—not a single employee had addressed him without fear in their eyes. (Francis excluded, since the git has always been his closest 'friend', and continues to bother him to no end to this day.) Sure, there had been grudging respect there, but it was for his Alpha's power and hold over them all, not for him.

Arthur had tried to understand, and he had done so for the past three years—but enough was enough, and he can feel his once subdued temper rising, bubbling and sizzling just beneath his skin as he prepares to let loose with his anger. He resists the urge to place a hand over his abdomen, to feel the slight bump there is beneath his waistcoat, and he breathes in in an effort to calm himself, and in doing so, he senses the shift in his mate's scent.

Alfred isn't pleased. (So he's discovered just what Arthur had done. _Perfect.)_

"Sweetheart," the Alpha begins, and a hand cups the Omega's cheek, the other resting atop the pale hand over the bump on his abdomen, which Arthur had subconsciously placed there despite his efforts not to. "Why did you arrange an interview with the media?"

His green eyes narrow even when he raises a brow in questioning. "Why, am I not allowed to do so?" The sarcasm is evident, dripping from every syllable which falls from his lips, and Arthur prevents himself from letting out a gasp as Alfred all but growls, stepping forward and placing both of his hands on the desk behind the Omega, effectively caging him in.

"Arthur," his voice has lowered to a dangerous whisper, his mouth brushing against the edge of the Briton's jaw, "what have I told you about disobeying me?"

"You may be my Alpha," he responds evenly, the tone of his voice betraying the ire which thrums in his blood, "and you may be my mate, Alfred, but I still have my rights, my humanity, my _free will._ I have tolerated your childishness for three years of our marriage, and four years of courtship before that. And if you forbid me from speaking to others for one day more, so help me—" Arthur looks up, meeting those blue eyes he loves so dearly. And he stops, swallowing down his anger as he senses an undertone in his mate's scent which he hasn't smelled in years, not since that day in the Alpha's bedroom, when he had confronted him of the true nature of their relationship.

It's faint, as if the American is suppressing it with everything he can, but it's there all the same, and the recognition of it takes him aback.

_("What am I to you, Alfred? If all I am is a quick shag, a hussy you want to play around with—I apologise, but—my pride cannot allow that any longer. I am worth more than being an Alpha's mere plaything."_

_Arthur closes his eyes as he stifles the sob which builds up, slowly, ever so slowly—and yet his eyes prickle with the threat of tears at the sensation of those lips caressing the back of his neck, parting as Alfred whispers nothing else but his name, over and over in a desperate murmur as his scent takes on a sour undertone. He tries to be strong, he tries to force himself to get up, to move, to do anything, and yet he sits there as this man's hand holds his own as if it is the most priceless treasure he can ever hold._

_"I'm sorry," he says softly, and Arthur can feel the tears falling, falling faster and faster—_

_"I'm sorry," Alfred whispers, his voice a hollow remnant of his obnoxiously deceptive confidence._ "My dearest."

_And Arthur can't help himself as he turns and lets himself cry—Alfred holds him, knowing that by staying in his arms, he's said more than he ever can, and that's enough.)_

His hand falls from its place on the bump on his abdomen, feeling the way their child seems to move restlessly within him. He reaches up, wrapping his arms around his Alpha as he presses his lips to his in a brief kiss.

Alfred is terrified of losing him, terrified of never being enough, and Arthur knows it better than anyone, and he loves him all the same. He pulls away, smoothing out the wrinkles in his husband's brow as he steps up onto his tiptoes, pressing another kiss there. "I'm sorry, love," he murmurs against his skin, "but you of all people know that I've never dealt with being restrained well enough to let it pass."

It elicits a small laugh from his husband, which coaxes a smile from him in return. "I'm surprised you even let it come this far. Three years of keeping you from the public's eye, Art, and you never said a thing until today."

At that, a tell-tale blush colours his cheeks a vibrant crimson, and Arthur looks away in his embarrassment. "W-well, that's because we'll be having to take care of our child soon, and he can't exactly grow up without anyone knowing who his mother is—"

Alfred laughs, nuzzling into the crook of his mate's neck and shoulder, right where his prominent mating mark is located. "Everyone'll know, anyway, since I'm pretty sure any kid of ours is unfortunately likely to inherit your brows."

He sends him his trademark death glare, the effect of which is fortunately lessened by the dreadful flush which still paints his cheeks an embarrassing scarlet. "You're such a damn wanker—"

A series of loud knocks on the door cuts him off, and Arthur immediately straightens, pushing away his husband, who immediately pouts and latches onto him again by way of an arm wrapping around his waist and pulling him close to his body. Honestly, with such an attitude, one will never have guessed that this twenty-five-year-old man is none other than the CEO of the Williams-Jones corporation.

"Come on in," Alfred calls, and a grin makes its way onto his features as his favourite Frenchman—and partner in mischief—steps into the room, holding the door open as two journalists follow him inside. With a slight wave and his customary flirtatious wink, Francis leaves once again. Arthur leans against his husband, settling into his side comfortably as he places a hand over his abdomen, out of sheer habit. (That, and their child is still restless within him. He can already tell that he'll be quite the brat, just like his father.)

He recognises the blond to be the well-known Polish journalist, Feliks Lukasiewicz, so the brunet must be an assistant, or simply an intern. The American offers an easygoing smile, subtly pulling his husband even closer to himself despite their already close proximity—and the irritated look the Briton quickly shoots at him, which he skillfully ignores.

"Nice to meet you," Alfred says, cheerful as ever, "my name is Alfred F. Jones, but I'm sure you know that already," he winks, and is pleased to note that the blond journalist lets out a slight giggle at his words. "But there's someone here whom you don't know."

Arthur takes that as his cue, and he lets himself smile slightly as he meets the gaze of the two journalists in the room.

"I am Arthur Kirkland-Jones," he says, and to his satisfaction, he notices that their eyes widen in realisation. "And I am none other than the Omega mate of the CEO, Alfred F. Jones. It's a pleasure to meet you."

**the end.**


	4. 00: Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is the first NSFW omake for this AU. Please be guided that this is my first time writing an _explicit_ sex scene, so any constructive criticism is welcome, and please forgive me if it's not to your liking. 
> 
> This omake is set before the first chapter, _Blue_ , and details how Alfred and Arthur met. Alrighty then, enjoy~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to DiurnalDays for being my beta-reader for this chapter. I never would've managed to finish this without your help, Diu, so thank you. ^_^
> 
> Also, special thanks to Ami V for being a great friend and generally being there when I'm freaking out over not updating even though you're really busy. xD
> 
> Thanks a lot, you two! <3

**00: _Midnight_**

It’s been three months of relative safety.

Arthur Kirkland should have known that it wasn’t going to last in such an environment terrorised by a personage like the Williams-Jones corporation’s heir.

He’s been warned over and over again by his own friends and family when he’d told them of his acceptance for a boring desk job at the acclaimed organisation. He’d heard of the rumours, he’d seen the news, and he knows that he’s no idiot.

_“Whatever the company president’s son tells you, Arthur-san,” those brown eyes look straight into his own, and Arthur swallows thickly as he fidgets with the handle of his half-full teacup, “you should always say no. Nothing good ever comes from associating with him.”_

Kiku Honda has always been the British Omega’s closest friend, the no-nonsense Beta being the most reliable companion Arthur could ever have asked for. He also works at the aforementioned corporation as the current CEO’s personal assistant, and therefore knows best about matters pertaining to the man’s devious heir.

Arthur knows all of this, and yet still he finds himself standing in one corner of the grandiose main conference hall contained within the confines of the corporation’s headquarters, a full glass of champagne in his hand. He reclines against the wall, letting out a sigh as he raises a hand, running his fingers through his messy blond hair—still careful not to disturb the pair of cat ears the Japanese Beta had helped fix atop his head.

Whoever thought of having a company-wide costume party in celebration for the successful closing of a highly important deal with a sister company, Arthur doesn’t know, but he’s fairly sure that if he discovers their identity, he’ll very much want to slap them upside the head. 

_This is utterly ridiculous,_ he internally grumbles, finally deciding to take a sip from the glass he’s been forced to take from a certain very enthusiastic Frenchman. _I never wanted to take part in this affair._

And it’s true—the Briton had arrived at the company earlier in the day in his usual attire: a violet button-up shirt tucked primly into grey slacks, partnered with a suit jacket of the same colour as his trousers, and polished leather shoes. He had been greeted by a ludicrously aghast Michelle, who was dressed in a somewhat skimpy maid’s outfit (apparently, it had been at her cousin Francis’ insistence), at the doors to their office. It had taken a couple minutes of bewildered wailing from the young woman, a hurried phone call to a secretly mischievous Japanese man, and a half hour of the stubborn Omega being wrestled into a ‘proper’ costume, as per his tormentors’ standards.

In the end, his ‘costume’ consisted of a close-fitting, sleeveless shirt in a beautiful shade of green, the neckline of which dipped low enough to catch a teasing glimpse of his collarbones; black slacks which hugged his figure in such a way which set his cheeks aflame, emphasising what little curves he had as a male Omega; as well as a pair of light brown, knee-high combat boots, which was, by far, the only part of his ridiculous get-up which he somewhat liked. As mentioned beforehand, he also wore a pair of fake cat ears. They were of a pale cream colour, matching the fluffy cat tail which protruded from beneath his shirt, and just above the waistband of his slacks, trailing halfway down the length of his legs. 

(He had also been forced to wear eyeliner, for Christ’s sake, not to mention the black leather collar around his neck, or the matching fingerless gloves.) 

Put in a concise manner, Arthur had been forced into an attire which resembled a rebellious cat-boy.

He scowls, casting an irate glance over his colleagues, all of whom are mingling in twos and threes, drifting into larger groups as they chat inanely before parting ways with laughter and a sip of their chosen poison for the night. Arthur knows that he should be out there, networking, perhaps, and yet he doesn’t care to act upon such a fleeting thought.

He has a reputation to uphold, and that is not to saunter about looking like a _harlot,_ of all things.

The Omega shifts his weight onto his other foot, tapping the slight heel of the combat boot against the polished tile with the movement. He turns his head towards the side, searching the crowds for a certain Japanese man, who had unfortunately taken away his phone and wallet for the night. It had been for his sake, Kiku had said—he needed to relax and mingle, even just once, before the Beta would even consider returning the snatched items to their rightful owner. Arthur had been reluctant, at the very least, wanting to protest against the unfair turn his seemingly normal work day had taken. 

In the end, he’d been dragged to the conference hall without any of his material possessions in hand, and no means of transportation away from the accursed event to be had. 

Arthur lets out a breath as he skims the crowds one last time before he closes his eyes in resignation. Apparently, Kiku was one hell of a master in hiding from sight when the situation benefits him. 

_There goes_ that _plan,_ the Briton bitterly muses as he downs his glass of champagne before setting it upon the table to his left. He sighs once again, pressing a hand to his throbbing temple as he shuts his eyes tight.

Can his night get any worse than it already is?

His only warning comes from a series of footsteps, the cadence loud amidst the buzzing in his ears.

There’s a rustle of fabric, a heated weight settling against his waist as he sharply takes in a breath and opens his eyes wide to meet blue, blue eyes.

“Hey there,” the voice is warm, laced with soft, enticing desire, and the breath hitches in Arthur’s throat as he’s pulled onto a lean, muscular torso hidden beneath a silk dress shirt which clings to the man’s body in the most sinful way. He immediately reaches up to brace himself against the stranger’s chest, feeling his cheeks burn with mortification as he’s pulled even closer, an arm wrapped tight around his waist. “What’s a beautiful kitten like you doing all alone?”

“P- _pardon?”_ Arthur can’t help but struggle to speak, rendered breathless by the heady, intoxicating scent the man exudes. _Sandalwood,_ he registers dimly somewhere in the back of his mind, _mixed in with the smell of coffee._ As though uncontrollably, he inhales deeply, and warmth curls deep in his belly, setting his senses aflame. 

The man—an Alpha, with striking golden hair and those beautiful, blue eyes behind a pair of silver frames—simply chuckles, a low, sensual laugh which sends a shiver down the Omega’s spine. His scent is sweet, tickling the Briton’s fancy as the taller man leans down, casually brushing the curve of his cheek against the smaller male’s jaw. 

“Is it so hard to believe that I find you fascinating, kitty?” The Alpha murmurs against the edge of the Omega’s jaw. The words, breathed against his skin, sends a delightful shudder across Arthur’s limbs, and he instinctively turns his head away, unwittingly baring a swathe of his untouched skin. 

He swallows thickly, his heart thumping rapidly, insistently, within the confines of his ribcage as his next breath shudders on its way out. “I am not the most ‘fascinating’ of persons,” Arthur manages to reply, aware of the Alpha’s lingering touch against his cheek. “So excuse me if I don’t understand why you continue to persistently harass me.”

A laugh caresses the side of his neck, smooth as silk and sweeter than the stranger’s enticing scent. “‘Harassment’. Such a harsh word to use,” he drawls, amusement coloring his words. “I’m not ‘harassing’ you if you’re enjoying the attention I’m giving you, am I, kitten?”

**[ § ]**

He's barely able to breathe, turning his head away as a voice whispers against his ear. "You've been so obedient so far, sweetheart," a hand, brushing against the curve of his waist beneath the olive green shirt he's wearing, fingertips feather-light and lingering. "So beautiful, and you're all mine. That deserves a reward, don't ya' think so?"

"I'm not yours to toy with, Jones," he hisses as acerbically as he can muster—only to be rendered ineffective as a soft, smooth laugh caresses his cheek, and those devious hands divest him of his shirt, tossing it somewhere in the darkness of the man's lavish penthouse.

Arthur gasps uncontrollably as he's soon pinned against the wall, its surface cool against his bare skin and contrasted by the overwhelming warmth of the Alpha who cages him in, a leg pressed between the Briton's own, located dangerously close to his straining arousal. "I don't exist to provide you with carnal pleasure."—a grunt, and he can't help but roll his hips forward in response to the other man's persistent grind against him. He fights back a weak moan, forcing himself to scowl—"There are other Omegas who'll be more than willing to spread their legs for you."

A smirk plays across the taller man's lips, "But I only want _you,_ Arthur," he murmurs against the top of the smaller man's head. "No one else compares to you." And then he's leaning in, a hand running up and down the nape of his neck—Arthur can't control the shudder which ripples through his body as the Alpha captures his mouth in a kiss which rattles his once unshakeable resolve. He senses it when his slacks are soon unbuttoned and unzipped, pulled down to rest in a tangle around his ankles.

A nip at his lower lip and he instinctively opens his mouth in a breathless whimper. He feels the way the taller man smirks as he takes the opportunity, pressing in close as he sweeps in to plunder the Omega's pliant mouth—every nook and tiny crevice, he leaves none untouched as he draws the Briton close, fingers tangled in his sandy blond hair.

He gasps and moans as those sinfully sweet lips part from his, trailing down the length of his exposed neck. He shivers, feeling the way the Alpha’s hands caress his sides, mapping out his slender form, before coming to a rest upon his hips. He caresses the jut of his hip bones, briefly following the trail of blond hair as they continue downward, before he ultimately reaches a decision.

In an instant, he divests his partner of his underwear.

Alfred smiles to himself in satisfaction as Arthur ultimately releases a startled yelp, hissing out a curse. 

“Jones, you damn _bastard—“_ the smaller man attempts to futilely back away, mustering what little self-control he has left in order to protest. Alfred laughs against the hollow of his throat, thumbing the head of the Omega’s cock. With a garbled curse, Arthur presses himself flat against the wall in fear that his legs would give out at any moment. He reaches up, ultimately clutching at the back of the taller man’s shirt as yet another moan rips itself free from between his lips. 

“You're the one who wants to fuck me,” he glares at him, pulling himself up to roll his hips against the heir’s obvious arousal. “So get to it and stop fucking teasing me.”

The Alpha merely smirks in return, leaving an open-mouthed kiss upon the hollow of his throat. “But it’s no fun if I don’t tease you, kitten,” he coos. “Live a little, why don’t ya?”

Alfred pulls him closer, laving his tongue against the Briton’s skin as he carefully trails his fingertips along the underside of his partner’s dick. At the small mewl he gets in response, he starts stroking him in earnest.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers into the Omega’s ear. He nips at the lobe, pulling it between his teeth and tugging gently before he lets it go. “So, so beautiful. You’re so _wet,_ darlin’, can you feel it?” He pulls his hand away from the Briton’s erection, fingers slick with his partner’s pre-cum as he trails it up the length of the smaller man’s inner thigh. 

Arthur shivers in return, mouth opened wide in a moan which all but shatters what little is left of the Alpha’s self-control. Alfred leans forward, then, quickly unbuckling his belt and unzipping his slacks. He groans in relief as some of the pressure is alleviated from his throbbing cock as he pulls down his pants and boxers in one go. 

“You’ve got me so hard for you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling the Briton close enough that he could feel evident jut of his cock against the curve of his hip. “I want you on your knees, on your back, hell, even on top of me or against this fucking wall. I’d take you so hard and rough, make you scream my name. Goddamn it, Arthur, I want it all.” 

Those green eyes look at him, hazy with desire, and his lips—bitten and licked, swollen and red from all of their kisses—part in a brief command.

“Then do it.” Arthur pulls him forward, grinding their erections together for that delicious friction. He gasps, the Alpha’s name tumbling from his tongue in a desperate cry, “J— _Alfred,”_ he whimpers as the heir moves, placing both hands on the curve of his arse and squeezing them firmly.

 _“Fuck me.”_ He finally growls into the taller man’s ear, his voice rough and demanding more, more, _more._ He knows what he wants, to hell with his damn pride and dignity. “Fuck me like you keep saying you will, Jones. Fuck me until I’m so full with your cum, I can’t take it anymore.” Arthur slips a hand beneath Alfred’s shirt, dragging his nails down the dips and smooth planes of the Alpha’s back as the man leans down, licking a trail between the Omega’s pectorals. He grunts, his voice breaking in a garbled cry as a his mouth latches onto his left nipple, so warm and wet and so damn good. 

“Fuck me,” Arthur repeats in a breathless whimper as that sinful tongue flicks across the flushed nub, before the harsh bite of teeth tug mercilessly at his tormented nipple. He cries out, muffled as two fingers invade his panting mouth, and diligently he coats the digits with saliva before they’re pulled out almost immediately. “Pin me down, make me beg, make me scream your goddamn name—”

Alfred pulls away, splaying his saliva-coated fingers across the Omega’s right pectoral muscle as he leans forward, brushing his lips against the edge of the Briton’s jaw. “Patience, darlin’,” he murmurs huskily, fingers catching hold of the neglected nipple and squeezing. A jolt passes through the smaller male at the touch, electrifying and all-consuming as the Alpha trails those same fingers downward and towards the small dip before the rounded curve of his backside. “I’ll be inside you sooner than you can say my name.”

Arthur manages a scowl, panting heavily and wantonly as he feels those same fingers dip oh-so-close to his entrance, circling and prodding but never penetrating. “So you say, but—”

His lips are captured in a kiss both sweet and sinful, his frustrated protest swallowed deep into a mouth which coaxes every gasp and moan to escape in breathy whimpers as the first finger slides its way inside. Its exploration doesn’t take long before it’s joined by a second, and then a third comrade. Their combined efforts within him fan the gathering sparks of the Briton’s arousal into a raging flame as they press against a certain bundle of nerves that has him arching his back and pulling away from those devious lips with a cry. 

He gasps and pants to regain his breath, shuddering and aching for more, a thin line of saliva trickling from the corner of his swollen lips. “I—” the press of lips against the side of his neck sends his pulse skyrocketing once again, and a dulled sense of foreboding pierces through his lustful haze. Arthur opens his eyes (when had they even closed?), to meet the Alpha’s predatory gaze.

He’s hoisted up, braced against the wall and pinned there by way of the taller man’s bruising grip upon his hips. Painful pleasure wracks his frame as Alfred plunges into him, and it tears a scream from between his lips, raw and hoarse and—

There’s only a moment’s respite as the younger man rubs comforting circles into the flare of his hips, allowing him to get used to the stretch. “Sorry ‘bout that, kitten,” he murmurs against the line of the Omega’s jaw, a small chuckle breathed upon the sweat-slicked skin and sending shivers down his spine. “I couldn’t help myself.” There’s a brief pause, and a series of open-mouthed kisses are lavished upon the length of his throat and collarbone as the Briton tilts his head back in ecstasy.

“Fuck,” Alfred hisses beneath his breath at the sight, experimentally rolling his hips and earning a pleased moan in return, “I can’t hold back anymore.”

Arthur grasps onto the tanned expanse of the heir’s shoulders, digging his nails into flesh as he hooks his legs about the Alpha’s hips, desperately holding on as the man picks up a rough, unforgiving pace, slamming into him with ruthless vigor. Breathless gasps and cries for more tumble free from his lips as he reaches up, tangling his fingers into golden locks. 

He feels the sting of the heir’s teeth against his skin, further soothed by an apologetic lick to the abused spot. Arthur cards his fingers through the Alpha’s hair, cradling the back of his head as he leans down for yet another clash of lips and teeth and tongue and breath, holding on to him as though he might break were he to push him away. 

“Can—can you _feel_ it, darlin’?” Alfred grunts, rolling his hips up in one particularly hard thrust, which earns him a louder moan from his Omega. _His_ and his alone, and the thought makes him smile against a creamy swathe of the Briton’s exposed neck, beaded with sweat and untouched by none other. “Can you feel how—” he pauses, gasping for breath, “how _tight_ and _wet_ you are around my cock, how fucking _deep_ you’re taking me in?”

A small, desperate mewl is all he gets in response, lost in the middle of the cacophony of flesh meeting flesh and broken, stilted moans and grunts of pleasure and pain. He nuzzles against sweat-slicked skin, inhaling his Omega’s scent of roses, honeyed with immense arousal and desire. He presses an open-mouthed kiss there, at the junction of the Briton’s neck and shoulder. Temptation’s wily fingers beckon him forward, urging him to sink his teeth into the untouched expanse, to claim and to mark this Omega as his own, and yet he resists, opting to hasten his pace to chase after his release.

 _It’s not yet time,_ he reminds himself. It is only a matter of time until he claims every part of this man as his own, and it will be done with his consent, not as a rash decision.

Fingernails etch scarlet lines into the planes of his tanned back, scrabbling for purchase, and Alfred knows that his lover is close, on the precipice of white oblivion—he tips his back, capturing his Omega’s lips in a kiss so sweet and yet so chaste, pulling away in order to whisper breathlessly into his ear— _“Come for me, sweetheart.”_

Release overwhelms every sensation, plunging him under and stealing the breath from between Arthur’s lips. He cries out, painting both of their torsos with his cum as he clutches with tired fingers onto the Alpha’s back, his eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. It is this expression, carved with such pleasure and contentment, which does it—with one last powerful thrust, Alfred comes, his lips brushing against the side of his partner’s neck in a small gesture of affection.

For a few brief moments, there is only what can barely be classified as silence, punctuated with shallow breaths and the almost inaudible hum of the air-conditioner in the penthouse. There is only but the rush of pleasure and the dulled buzz of the few and far between flutes of alcohol they had shared in their veins, and when their eyes meet—evergreen with the clearest azure—there is but one thought in their minds.

There is no love here, only lust—

Or is there?


End file.
